


our bodies safe to shore

by pensiveVisionary (hamburr)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Consent, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Sexual Content, Recovery, Trans Aaron Burr, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, is a messy process
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 06:52:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8134318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamburr/pseuds/pensiveVisionary
Summary: Alexander Hamilton is starting over.Aaron Burr is just kind of existing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _  
> [all that's left is the ghost of you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ghb6eDopW8I)  
>  _

They meet at the tail end of fall. It’s cold and cloudy and the few leaves that are left strike a vivid contrast to the gloom of the rest of the world.

Alexander is as haphazard as he’s always been, hair falling loose out of the ponytail he’s cultivated over the past couple years, wearing a too-large gray hoodie with one sleeve pushed up to his elbow, revealing ticks and hashes of fading scars.

Aaron observes the man walk in, just as he’s observed the last twenty people to walk inside. He stirs his now-cold coffee and stares into the middle distance. 

He’s sitting alone at a two-person table. No one should bother him, that’s why he chose this seat.

But then he plops down in the chair across from Aaron.

“Hello, I’m Alexander Hamilton.”

Aaron blinks at him.

“Sorry for sitting at your table, I guess, but it’s pretty busy in here. I couldn’t find anywhere else to sit, and you looked kinda lonely here by yourself.”

Aaron still says nothing. He can’t comprehend why this man is sitting here, talking to him.

“Are you okay? You look really tired-- wait, fuck, that’s rude. I wasn’t trying to insult you, I think you’re actually really handsome, and that shirt looks really nice on you, and you have really nice eyes, and I don’t think you told me your name, what’s your name?”

“Aaron Burr.”

“Aaron Burr.” Short pause. “Sir! Hah, I like that. Get it, cause the Burr and sir rhyme-- why are you looking at me like that. Dude. Have you even blinked the whole time I’ve been sitting here? Oh, there you go. Whew. That was a little weird.”

And he just keeps _talking_.

He sits and talks until he finishes his coffee, and then tries to drink out of the empty cup. “Oh, crap, I’ve run out. Maybe I’ll get more. I could get you one too if you want? Yeah, I’m gonna do that--” He starts to stand up.

“Wait,” says Aaron, surprising even himself. Alexander gives him a comically owlish look. “You don’t need more caffeine, you talk like your body has some sort of mysterious process that converts oxygen into caffeine.”

Alexander sits back down, and Aaron realizes that that was the most words he has said out loud at once in longer than he would like to admit.

“And fix your sleeve,” Aaron adds for good measure, and Alexander glances down to see his uneven sleeves. He pushes up the other sleeve to create equilibrium, and Aaron observes that his other forearm is equally marked.

And so Aaron finds much of his afternoon compromised by a man who does not seem to know when or how to stop talking. They exchange numbers, prompted by Alexander, and by the time he wakes up the next morning, he finds 15 unread messages.

He isn’t sure if he’s annoyed or flattered, but he definitely feels some type of way.

He texts him back.

 

They kiss for the first time at the beginning of December, in Aaron’s apartment. It’s shy, with Alexander delicately taking Aaron’s hands in his, pressing his lips against Aaron’s softly, so softly.

Their second kiss ends up with Aaron’s hands tangled in Alexander’s hair and Alexander’s hands tight on Aaron’s hips. Alexander is breathless and Aaron is shaking.

“Aaron?” says Alexander. “Are you okay?”

“I-- yeah. Just. Been a long time,” Aaron says, and goes for another kiss, because that’s the task at hand. Kissing. Alexander turns his head away, though, and cups Aaron’s face in his hands.

“Aaron,” he says softly. “What’s the matter?”

Aaron shakes his head. “I don’t have the words.”

“Okay,” says Alexander. “Okay. Want to watch a movie?”

And Aaron does, and he doesn’t, but he says okay and lets Alexander hold him.

 

It’s Christmas Eve. It feels absent, but it’s felt absent for most of Aaron’s life.

He and Alexander are in Aaron’s bed; they’ve spent most of the evening lying around, making out. Alexander’s hoodie is crumpled at the edge of the bed, and he’s wearing only a white t-shirt. Aaron knows now that the scars go all the way up Alexander’s arms, and he’s never seen a new one in the months he’s known him.

Aaron never rolls up his sleeves around Alexander.

Alexander’s shirt has slipped up his torso a few inches, and with a cautious hand, Aaron runs his fingertips along the exposed skin there as they kiss. Alexander gives a soft moan and says, “that’s good, you can keep going,” against Aaron’s lips. So Aaron, vaguely entranced by the smooth, warm feeling of Alexander’s skin, runs his hand along Alexander’s back, his sides.

Alexander, after a time, sits up and pulls off his shirt, and Aaron tugs him back down. He doesn’t keep kissing him, but has Alexander lay on him, and just touches him.

He doesn’t realize that the sleeve of his sweater has slipped halfway up his arm until Alexander pauses.

“Aaron,” says Alexander, and takes his wrist gently in his hands. Aaron jerks his arm away.

“I never said anything about your scars,” Aaron says, and pointedly pulls his sleeve back down. Alexander says nothing, but the crease between his eyebrows speaks volumes.

Aaron rolls over, to be on his side, facing away from Alexander. He closes his eyes, starts counting backwards from one hundred so that he won't think about what just happened, and is asleep between forty-five and forty-four.

 

The next morning, Aaron wakes up in bed alone. He feels a surge of anxiety, and slips out of bed.

Alexander is in the living room, sitting on the couch, doing something on his phone. He is wearing sweatpants he has definitely stolen from Aaron, and is shirtless. His hair is damp; he must have showered recently. He looks up when he perceives Aaron’s entrance to the room.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m sorry about last night.”

Aaron just shrugs and sits down next to him.

“Is this okay?” Alexander says, reaching out to put his arm around Aaron.

Aaron nods, and leans against him, but Aaron’s body is still tense.

“I worry about you,” Alexander says.

Aaron shrugs.

“What happened to you?” Alexander says.

Aaron just looks at the wall across the room.

“Aaron--”

“Stop.”

Alexander stops.

“What makes you think it’s a good idea to press me about something I haven’t opened up to you about?”

Alexander doesn’t answer. It was a rhetorical question anyway.

“I’m sorry,” says Alexander, very quietly, after a long moment. “I-- can I be honest? I thought you weren’t asking me what happened to me because you didn’t care to know, didn’t want to get into it. And then I saw-- saw we had something in common-- and I thought maybe-- maybe it would be a chance to talk about it.”

“You can tell me about what happened to you,” Aaron says, very quietly. “I was just… modeling the fact that I didn’t want to be asked. I thought that if you wanted to talk about it, you’d tell me.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Can I, then?”

“Please.”

 

And so Alexander tells him. He tells him about his childhood-- about the hurricane, about how his mother died while he was in her arms, about how his cousin committed suicide, about how there was nowhere to turn and he just retreated into himself, built himself out of nothing, immigrated by sheer force of will and the kindness and maybe pity of other people.

He fought a valiant battle with mental illness through college; the worst of his scars had been mainly accumulated over those years. After he graduated, he felt lost, completely out of place without the regularity of academics. Things just kept getting worse and worse, until one day he took things too far. His roommate found him.

He’d spent a long time in a hospital, after that. He had met Aaron not that long after he’d been released, while he was still trying to figure out where his place was. He has a part-time office job, now, working for a very understanding boss and trying to get back on his feet again. He’s doing better, he assures Aaron quickly-- he hasn’t hurt himself in a long time, hasn’t even wanted to.

“I’m glad you’re still here,” Aaron says, softly, and Alexander’s face finally crumples and he starts to cry.

Aaron pulls him in and holds him close.

 

“Hey,” says Aaron, a couple hours later, when they’re curled up together on the couch. “I got you something.”

“What?” says Alexander.

“It’s Christmas.”

“Oh, fuck, it is,” Alexander says, his eyes wide. “And I didn’t get you anything.”

“I didn’t expect you to.”

“You didn’t expect me to because you think I’m unreliable, or because you had no expectations?”

“The latter,” Aaron says, and presses a soft kiss to Alexander’s temple. “Let me go get it.”

It’s a small, thin package, wrapped in green tissue paper. Alexander opens it, and his mouth opens a little. He looks up at Aaron.

“It’s beautiful.”

It’s a notebook, hand-bound, with a sleek black cover and _Alexander Hamilton_ painted in neat gold script on the cover.

“Where did you--?”

“A friend of mine makes notebooks, and… well, I’ve seen you write. I thought you might be able to use a nice notebook.”

“I’m gonna have to write--like--really important stuff in here, it’s too pretty for anything else. Thank you, Aaron. This means-- so much. Thank you. Thank you.”

Aaron kisses him, once, soft, and Alexander pulls him into a tight hug.

“Do you want me to get you something? I’ll get you something.”

“No, you don’t have to. I’m just glad you’re here,” Aaron says, for the second time that day.

Alexander pauses, looks at him.

“Will you be my boyfriend? For real, and actual?”

Alexander hadn’t realized he’d never seen Aaron smile, really smile, until that moment. Aaron whispers a ‘yes’ and Alexander pulls him in, kisses him, hugs him, holds him.

 

New Year’s Eve. They’re at Alexander’s apartment; a few of Alexander’s new work friends are there. Most of everyone is drunk. Aaron doesn’t drink. Alexander doesn’t either, because of his medication, he informs Aaron, as they sit on the couch together, making their way through a bag of chips. They watch the others talking and laughing, watch the New York City celebration on Alexander’s crappy little TV.

“I used to live in New York,” Alexander says. “For college. I went to Columbia.”

“I went to Princeton,” Aaron offers.

“Ivy League fuckers,” John Laurens says, overhearing, flopping onto the couch on Alexander’s other side. Alexander rolls his eyes and shoves at him.

“See where that got me,” Alexander says, a little rueful but mostly joking, and John elbows him.

“Please. You’re gonna fly up through the ranks as soon as you’re ready for it. Washington fucking loves you, dude, and you’re fucking brilliant. You’re going places, man.” He glances at Aaron. “Hey, so, boyfriend, what do you do?”

“I have a name,” Aaron says.

“Prickly,” John says.

“Burr, actually. I’m a freelance writer.”

“Dude. Aaron. Aaron, did you just make a pun?” There is unrestrained delight on Alexander’s face. Aaron takes his hand, squeezes it.

“Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. You’ll never know.”

“You have a sense of humor after all!”

“Fuck off,” Aaron says, but allows Alexander to kiss his cheek. John rolls his eyes.

“Y’all are gross. I’m getting another drink, do you want anything?”

Both of them politely decline, and John wanders off to go get another beer and tuck himself under Hercules Mulligan’s arm.

The countdown on the TV starts, and Alexander whispers along with it. He kisses Aaron when it gets down to one, and Aaron obliges him, slipping his hands into Alexander’s hair and pulling him closer.

The others have moseyed out of the apartment by two in the morning, and then it’s just Alexander and Aaron.

“Come to bed with me,” Alexander says, standing, holding out his hand to Aaron. Aaron takes it, and allows himself to be led.

They fall into bed together, kissing, Aaron’s hands in Alexander’s hair just as he likes it. There’s something different tonight, insistent, and it’s not long before Alexander has lost his shirt and Aaron’s has slipped halfway up his torso.

Aaron takes a deep breath before he sits up and peels off his shirt. His binder is old and black and stained with deodorant--he didn’t know he was going to be seen shirtless--and Alexander doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. He puts his hands on the small of Aaron’s back and goes back to kissing him, and Aaron is dizzy with the feel of skin on skin.

The night ends with Aaron’s hand down Alexander’s pants, Alexander panting and moaning against Aaron’s neck. That’s new, too, and he finds he likes the openness on Alexander’s face, the sleepy face he makes after, the way he cuddles up against Aaron once he’s back and changed.

“You’re so good,” Alexander whispers.

“Never as good as you,” Aaron mumbles, and slips off to sleep, exhausted.

 

It’s mid-January when Aaron says, “Alexander, I’m depressed.”

To his credit, Alexander doesn’t say ‘I know,’ even though he couldn’t possibly not have known. He looks at Aaron, takes his hand.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says quietly. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

Aaron shrugs, and Alexander doesn’t press. He wraps his arm around Aaron’s shoulders, kisses Aaron’s temple.

They stay in bed together that day. They don’t talk much. They don’t need to.

 

Alexander starts working full-time in February, and he starts coming home to Aaron’s apartment after work more often than he doesn’t. Sometimes he stays the night, sometimes they just lay on the couch together for a while. Alexander is beginning to learn Aaron better; he can usually tell when Aaron just needs to be quiet and in Alexander’s company, or if he is up for other things. They go on dates, sometimes, and hold hands in public. Alexander uses his notebook to write letters to Aaron, handing him the notebook whenever he comes over. Aaron stays up late, poring over the words that Alexander left, all for him. Sometimes it's fiction, usually it's not. Sometimes it's prose, sometimes it's poetry, sometimes it's stream-of-consciousness. Sometimes it's painful. It's always beautiful.

Alexander still does most of the talking. Aaron listens. They learn the alphabet in ASL, for when one or the other of them can't speak. It comes in handy.

One night, they lay in Aaron’s bed, kissing, slowly shedding layers of clothes. Aaron has seen Alexander naked, by now, but Alexander has seen no more of Aaron than he did on New Year’s.

So when Aaron follows Alexander’s lead, stripping off his binder and his jeans, sits there in front of Alexander, Alexander looks equal parts surprised and thrilled. He also looks like he isn’t quite sure what to do first.

So Aaron pulls him down and kisses him, and Alexander is enthusiastic, touching Aaron everywhere he can reach, and Aaron’s body responds appropriately. He clutches at Alexander, wraps his legs around him and holds him close.

They’ve talked around the idea of sex before; Alexander is clearly very interested, but doesn’t want to pressure Aaron. But right now, to Aaron, it sounds like an okay idea. Maybe better than okay.

They have a quick back-and-forth: _do you mind if I-- do you have-- yes-- okay--_ and Aaron is chilly and exposed in front of Alexander. He lays back, watches Alexander put on a condom, get settled between his legs, watches almost as if it’s happening to someone else. He feels it, observes his own reaction as his hips buck upward, as one of his hands grabs at the sheet. He stretches out an arm to Alexander, and Alexander’s eyes catch, as they often do, on the scars on Aaron’s arm.

And just as suddenly as he wanted to, he stops.

Stops.

The scars are neat, thin, even, nothing like the crisscrossed mess on Alexander’s arms. Aaron’s are symmetrical, matching on both sides, raised lines lighter than the rest of his skin, each line evenly spaced above the previous, stopping just beneath the inside of his elbows. They’re old, too; he stopped a long time ago, once he realized it did nothing for the numbness.

Aaron thought he’d learned that physicality doesn’t fix anything.

He pulls away from Alexander, disengages and curls up on the far corner of the bed, clutching at the pillow, his whole body shaking.

“Aaron? Aaron, Aaron, sweetheart, love, are you okay?”

Aaron shakes his head _no_ and he hears Alexander moving. He keeps his eyes shut tight.

“Did I do something?” There is anxiety in Alexander’s voice. Aaron shakes his head again.

“Can you talk?”

Another nonverbal no.

“Do you want me to hold you?”

Painstakingly slowly, Aaron fingerspells ‘ _put some pants on first_.’

 

It takes time for Aaron to find his words again.

“Alexander,” is the first thing he says. Alexander clings to him, holds him tighter. “I don’t think you understand how bad I’m doing.”

“Then help me understand,” Alexander says.

“I just… I feel numb all the time. I’ve tried everything. Hurting doesn’t help. Drinking doesn’t help. Sex doesn’t help. I’m just… I’m empty, Alexander. I’m not sure if there’s anything left, except maybe a little bit of anxiety.”

“There’s more than that. I’ve seen it.”

“I don’t think I like kissing very much. It’s unpleasant and hot and I don’t like how it makes my mouth feel and, and-- I don’t know if I like sex, either, at least not like this. It’s too much. Too much.”

“That’s okay. It’s okay, Aaron, for real, we don’t have to do it. We don’t have to do any of it, if you don’t want to.”

“I’m scared. I don’t want to get worse.”

“I’m here, Aaron. I’m here. We can figure out how to help you.”

“What if you get tired of it? What if you get tired of me? What if you leave?”

“None of those things are going to happen. I love you, Aaron. I love you.”

And Aaron blinks as he realizes, as he says it back, mystified: “I love you too.”

Alexander’s smile is like the sun breaking through clouds.

 

Aaron starts therapy at the beginning of March. It hurts, at first, and he’s afraid it’s making things worse, but Alexander urges him to keep trying.

As the winter leaves, Aaron starts to feel more awake.

Alexander moves in with him that April, and they get a cat, a shy black rescue cat with white paws that Alexander insists on naming Quantum Physics, for some ungodly reason.

For some reason, the first time the scared little cat curls up in Aaron’s lap and lets Aaron pet her and starts purring, Aaron’s eyes tear up. When he tells Alexander this later, Alexander cups Aaron’s face in his hands.

“You’re healing, Aaron, just look at you.”

And Aaron feels tears prick at his eyes again, but he smiles back at Alexander.

“I’m so glad you’re here with me,” Alexander murmurs.

“Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is probably the most personal thing i've ever written, tbh
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](waitforit--waitforit.tumblr.com). comments and kudos cure my depression, probably


End file.
